


I Will Hold You Forever - Unfinished

by TheRealAndian



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: (implied) - Freeform, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Body Horror, Canon-Typical Horror, Canon-Typical Worms, Elias is a scheming piece of shit, Eventual Happy Ending, Existential Dread, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I promise, I will write all the Jonmartin fic, LonelyEyes, M/M, Mutual Pining, Peter Lukas is a Bastard, Slow Burn, Tags May Change, and nothing can stop me, but also they gay, jonmartin, like they really just want to kill each other, strap in y'all we're in for a long one, wouldn't be a Jonmartin fic without the Lonely
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-03
Updated: 2020-03-30
Packaged: 2021-02-23 07:07:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23007649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheRealAndian/pseuds/TheRealAndian
Summary: Jonathan Sims would like to believe that he's clever, but sleep deprivation has a way of messing with him. Now he has a hopeless crush on his coworker who won't even answer his calls anymore, he's being attacked by Eldritch Powers that seem to have it out for him, and his creepy boss isn't answering any of his many,manyquestions about the nature of his job.An AU answering the question of 'what if the worms came a bit earlier?'EDIT: This fic is an unfortunate victim of being left behind. Sorry about that, but feel free to throw around some headcanons on what you expected to happen!
Relationships: Elias Bouchard/Peter Lukas, Jonathan Sims & Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood & Peter Lukas, Martin Blackwood & Sasha James, Martin Blackwood & Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims, Sasha James & Jonathan Sims, Sasha James & Tim Stoker
Comments: 21
Kudos: 149





	1. Chapter 1

Jon was not having a good day. He’d managed to go the entire night before without sleeping, only to be late to work because he passed out while trying to make a piece of toast. Then he’d missed his train, of course. Then Martin had managed to spill tea on him, which he of course apologised for about a thousand times. There were statements to read, papers to file...

He rubbed his eyes. He didn’t even know what time it was anymore. Time didn’t matter, right? Time was all in the eye of the beholder or something? No, he was mixing words. Metaphors. Words were pointless anyway. He was slowing down and he knew, he _knew_ he should go home.

His phone told him that it was well past midnight. He should’ve left ages ago. Now it would be dark. Anything could be out in the dark. Maybe Jane Prentiss and her worms…

“Jon?”

Jon leapt from his desk, knocking over two tape recorders and an entire box of unread statements. Every single nerve stood on adrenalised end, and he swore far louder than he meant to. When had the door opened? When had Martin walked in? Why was Martin _here_?

_He’s staying in the Archives, like he has for the past four months. Jane Prentiss trapped him in his flat for two weeks, and now he’s living here._

Right. Of course. He knew that.

“ _What_?” he bit out, far harsher than he’d intended.

Martin flinched, one speckled hand on the doorknob. Thank God he was at least wearing _trousers_ this time! “I um- I thought I heard- I-I mean, well, a-are you okay?”

There was a strong urge to beat his head on the desk, or maybe the wall, screaming about how he was the furthest thing from ‘okay,’ but he didn’t think that would reflect very well on him. Instead, he settled himself back into his chair, although his rear was certainly sore from doing that all day. When was the last time he’d stood up for something as mundane as a bathroom break? He winced: quite some time.

“You just... _startled me_ ,” Jon spat, hating that he even had to admit that _Martin_ of all people had startled him. “Was there something you needed?”

“I-I saw the light on,” Martin stammered. “I was just...worried.”

“I’m fine.”

He hated saying those words. Always had. He knew they were never true--not coming from him, at least. He’d not been fine for a long time, if ever. He was terrified of going home because monsters could lurk in any dark corner. Maybe people would wake up one day and find his worm-eaten corpse lying in an abandoned building. Perhaps eight spindly legs would reach out from a dark doorway to ensnare him and no one would ever know what happened to him. But no, those were only thoughts he was allowed to have at night in the dark where no one could see him.

He certainly wasn’t going to tell _Martin Blackwood_ about his problems.

“You should go home,” Martin said after a beat. It wasn’t a question.

“It’s a bit late for that,” Jon sighed. “Just go to bed. I’ll try to stay quiet.”

“Jon.”

“ _What_?”

Martin crossed his arms and huffed. His big, cow-like eyes narrowed, and his freckled face pinched with irritation. “When was the last time you actually slept?”

“Does it matter?”

“S’pose not,” Martin sighed, rolling his eyes. There was a pinkish tint to his ears. Maybe it was the lighting. “Still, you should try and sleep. Th-there’s a couch in the breakroom. I could make you some tea, if you like.”

There it was. Martin treating him like a child. He _hated_ that. At least, that’s what he told himself. If he thought about it too much, he might accidentally find it endearing. Certainly no one _else_ in his life had ever cared enough to force him to take care of himself. His grandmother certainly hadn’t instilled any of that in him, and Georgie had always let him destroy himself until he came crawling back and begged her for help. That had always been humiliating.

No, he needed to stop thinking. Thinking was bad.

Maybe he really _did_ need some rest for once.

Before he could really think about what he was doing, he dragged himself back to his feet and trudged toward the door. Martin held it open and let him pass, not taking his eyes off of him.

When he was alone in the small toilet room across the hall, he let himself slump against the wall and almost closed his eyes. He didn’t think that was a good idea. Hitting the floor would be incredibly painful, and Martin was sure to fuss over him, maybe even drag him to the nearest hospital to see if he had a concussion. They would force him to stay the night and sleep. He didn’t need that. He had enough problems to deal with.

After relieving himself, he moved in the direction of the breakroom. It was separate from the main Archives, but it was an almost cosy little area with a couch along the back wall and a stove and microwave for everyone’s lunches and Martin’s copious amounts of tea. The fridge stored a small assortment of basic foodstuffs, but nothing major. Except perhaps Tim’s secret cache of vodka that he stored in water bottles. Elias would have a fit if he knew about that, Jon was sure. He never could seem to make himself care about it, though.

Maybe he was just afraid of pushing Tim away like everyone else he’d ever known.

No. Connections with other people weren't important. What mattered was the research--the statements of those who may actually have seen something that didn’t mesh well with the natural world.

Most of it was still rubbish, though.

“Jon?”

Jon sighed. “ _Yes_ , Martin?”

Martin fidgeted with two steaming mugs of tea. “You just seemed…lost.”

“Again, I’m _fine_.”

“You’re not, though, are you?” Martin set down the mugs and gestured for Jon to sit across from him at the table. “None of us are, really.”

Jon flopped into the seat and wrapped his fingers around the warm mug. His eyelids drooped.

Martin was talking. Something about needing to take better care of himself. Something unimportant. “-you’re not the only one that’s worried about…Jon, are you listening?”

“Mm?”

Of course he wasn’t. It was just Martin fussing over him again. It wasn’t anything new; he’d heard it all before. Even Georgie hadn’t been this bad.

Martin sighed. “Just…you should go to sleep. Finish your tea, and let yourself sleep.”

_Why do you care so much, Martin?_

The question popped up, unbidden, in his head. He’d asked himself that question before, but never had enough curiosity to ask. Now, though, sitting there across from him, drinking tea while he was barely conscious enough to do so…he desperately wanted to know. The way that Martin kept looking at him with his wide eyes, the way he was chewing on his bottom lip with worry, the way he kept fidgeting with his own mug without actually drinking the tea…he was a very curious man indeed.

Martin was blabbering again. “-th-that is to say, um, well-”

“Martin?” Jon sighed. “Shut up.”

“S-sorry.”

They finished their tea in awkward silence. Jon was almost disappointed when he hit the bottom of the mug. The couch was starting to look _very_ inviting. It’d been a long time since he’d let himself curl up on a comfy cushion (or a bed, for that matter) and actually try to sleep. Most nights he’d just been falling asleep at his dinner table. A couch and blanket sounded quite lovely.

Warm fingers brushed against his hand as Martin gently pried the empty mug away. “Go to bed, Jon. I-I can even take the couch, if you’d prefer a proper bed.”

Jon waved him away nonchalantly, trying to shake away the spreading heat along his hand. He was too tired for this. “No, no, Martin. The couch is fine.” _Besides_ , he added to himself, _I’d rather Tim not get any ideas_.

Martin blushed fiercely. “R-right. Yeah.”

Shit, he’d said that out loud, hadn’t he? What else had he said aloud?

“I think your internal monologue is a bit broken, Jon,” Martin chuckled, standing and taking the mugs to the sink. “ _Please_ go to bed.”

Jon grumbled and stood from his seat, only to dramatically topple onto the floor. His head cracked against the tile.

“Oh God! Jon, are you okay!?”

He lay there stunned. His head rather hurt, and his limbs didn’t feel like moving.

Martin was there, kneeling at his side, looking rather hesitant. Jon couldn’t find the willpower to even glare at him. The man held up his hand. “H-how many fingers am I holding up?”

Jon groaned. “Two. I’m fine, Martin. I’m just _tired_.”

“Well um...let’s at least get you to the couch, okay? I-it’ll be more comfortable.”

Martin carefully took Jon’s hand, almost like he was trying to hold a very volatile substance, and started to pull him up. There was that warmth again, and Jon’s heartbeat sped up. It was very warm. _Powerfully_ warm.

Jon needed sleep.

And then he was standing again. How did he manage that? Martin was still holding his hand and guiding him toward the couch. His other hand was on Jon’s back, and he was _certain_ that Martin would feel his heart pounding. Why was that happening? It was just _Martin_ , for God’s sake! It wasn’t like he was something _special_ or anything, certainly not to _Jon_. He was just this random, sweet guy whom he _happened_ to work with. There was nothing special about the way he gave Jon that nervous smile and looked at the ground, or how his ears turned pink when he blushed, or how his ginger curls always seemed to be just _barely_ out of his eyes. It wasn’t like he was _pretty_ or anything...

Oh God, he was pretty.

Jon lurched forward and faceplanted the couch. That wasn’t near as bad as the floor, and it had the added bonus of hiding the sudden warmth in his cheeks. Martin wasn’t _pretty_ , he was just _Martin_! And it wasn’t like Jon was _interested_ in- in his coworkers! _Certainly_ not a clumsy and awkward fool like _Martin_!

Martin, whose hands were now grasping at his torso and trying to haul him back up. Martin, who was very, very warm, and very, very _not pretty_.

“I’m fine, I’m _fine_!” Jon shouted, trying to put as much distance between him and the not-pretty man next to him as possible.

Martin was saying something. He was speaking fast. Jon couldn’t hear over the roar of blood in his ears. He needed to get away from Martin before he did something stupid in his sleep-deprived madness. Something he would almost certainly regret.

“-on _look_!”

It was then that he finally spotted whatever Martin was trying to call his attention to. He froze, panic icing over his nerves. Three silvery worms crawled up through a crack in the tiles. Two more followed, then five, ten, a dozen, until they were pouring out of the crack like water from a drain. It wasn’t just there, either. There were cracks in the walls, and in the floors, and in the ceiling, and they were _coming_.

_No, they’re already here._

Martin yanked him back, away from the crack in the floor and away from the hundreds of tiny monsters now surging toward him. He fell against Martin’s chest and tried not to think about turning around and burying himself into it to hide. He could feel Martin’s heart pounding relentlessly. Jon’s was still trying to catch up.

Martin shouted. Kicked a few worms away. Dragged Jon into a room that was pitch black and cold. The lights flicked on. There was a worm eating into Jon’s leg. A few were eating their way through his shoes. Martin threw Jon against a wall and smashed the worms on his foot before digging the one out of his calf. The corkscrew hurt. A lot.

He was shaking. He was cold. But then...then he wasn’t. There was warmth surrounding him. He clamoured back into something resembling consciousness. Martin was silent, and he was...he was _holding_ Jon. Martin's breath was warm on his ear, and he was shaking, too. Something wet soaked into the shoulder of Jon's shirt. Martin was crying.

And Jon? Well, Jon wasn't exactly in any better shape. He honestly didn't know if he was also crying when he wrapped his arms around Martin, or when he settled his face onto his chest, or when he closed his eyes and tried to forget that this was _Martin_ whom he was holding, and who was holding him back.

But Martin was warm, and Martin was safe, and Jon did not want to let go. He tried not to feel disappointed when Martin finally did.

"A-are you all right?" Martin asked, with a look that Jon was almost _certain_ was one of searching. What could he be looking for?

"I um…," Jon replied, a dry, hysteric giggle forcing its way out as he did, "a-as good as could be expected, I suppose…." He reached up and rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly aware of just how close they were sitting. "H-how are you erm- feeling?"

Martin rubbed his eyes and wiped the remaining tears on his trousers. "Terrified?"

Jon had never noticed how blue Martin's eyes were. It was like looking into the eye of a storm and being surrounded by a thousand bolts of lightning. Martin wasn't just _pretty_ , he was _beautiful_.

Jon then dutifully shoved that idea into the very back of his mind where he hoped he would never see it again. It was just the sleep deprivation and the terror talking, nothing more.

Martin leaned back on his heels and glanced out the single window between them and the worms. Jon followed his gaze. The creatures were... _swarming_. They were everywhere, in everything, and they weren’t going to be leaving anytime soon. Their squishing and squelching and oozing could still be heard even through the nearly soundproof walls. The loudest thing, however, was the space between him and Martin, despite that not making any sense at all in Jon’s mind.

“So I guess this is it, huh?” Martin mused. His voice was quiet. Scared. “Th-there’s no other way out of here. It’s only a matter of time…”

 _We’ll find a way_ , Jon wanted to say. _We’re going to get out of here alive._ But he knew it was just a lie, so he stayed silent.

Martin continued. “I guess it makes sense. It’s not like any of the other statement-givers ever really get away. They either die, o-or disappear, or...well, I don’t know. But I should’ve known better. I shouldn’t have brought her here. Now...now we’re _both_ going to die.”

“It’s not your fault, Martin,” Jon said.

“Isn’t it?”

Jon shifted a bit closer to Martin, very careful not to actually _touch_ him, but to at least be close enough to him that maybe he would find it comforting. “No, of course not. We’ve been seeing them for weeks. We knew this was coming.”

“But it’s because I came back here.”

“It’s _not_.”

He looked at Jon, and Jon felt trapped under that electric gaze. “If I hadn’t come back," Martin said, "i-if I had _died_ \--Jane Prentiss wouldn’t _be_ _here_.”

Jon squared his shoulders. So what if Martin was far bigger and almost definitely stronger than him. _You don’t know that_ , he meant to say. “Neither would you,” he actually said.

Martin blushed, and he quickly looked away. Jon did too, cursing himself for making things more awkward. Why was talking to Martin so difficult all of a sudden? And what was this warm feeling in his chest? He hadn’t felt anything like it since...

“Th-thank you, Jon,” Martin said. He couldn’t see the man’s face, but he knew from his voice that he was holding back tears.

Jon decided that maybe what he’d said wasn’t so bad after all. Besides, it wasn’t like they were going to be around much longer to actually question the implications of his words.

Martin leaned against the wall behind them. “H-how long do you think she’ll let us...I mean, well-”

“Live?”

“Y-yeah.”

Jon shuddered, not wanting to think about it. Martin had been trapped like this for two weeks, but he’d had food and water to help him last long enough. Now? They didn’t have those luxuries. “Maybe we’ll get to starve before she tries to get in.”

“Or maybe Tim’ll take one look at the Institute in the morning and set it on fire,” Martin chuckled.

“I think I’d much prefer burning to death to death by worms.”

“Can’t disagree with that one.”

“Don’t suppose we have many fire extinguishers in here.”

“Most of them are in the Archives.”

Jon raised an eyebrow. “Where? I never saw any except the one beside my desk.”

Martin bit his lip. “They um...this is going to sound really stupid, but I hid them in some empty case file boxes.”

“Why?”

“I...didn’t want the- the _worms_ to know they were there,” Martin giggled.

At any other time, Jon may have scolded him for this lack of forethought, but he really wasn’t in the mood this time. “Maybe they’ll accidentally break them and kill themselves,” he said.

Martin laughed. It was the first time Jon had properly heard that, and he decided he liked the sound--the way it bubbled up from inside Martin’s belly and came out loud and strong until he was wheezing. Jon laughed, too. He hoped Martin liked the sound.

Outside of their small haven, the worms on the window parted. Both of them stopped laughing. Jane Prentiss’s decaying visage stared at them through lifeless eyes. Her mouth turned up into an unnatural grin, worms dropping from her lips. Jon found himself gripping Martin’s sleeve and inching closer to his warmth.

Martin’s hand wrapped around Jon’s arm and pulled him against him. His other hand found Jon’s other side and held him there. Jane Prentiss did not look away. Jon clung to Martin and watched their captor.

When Jon finally built up enough courage to look away from the monster, he saw that they’d been in there for an hour. How long had they had their staring match? How long had Martin been holding him for?

When he looked back at the window, the worms had covered it over again.

Martin’s grip on him tightened. Jon did not complain. Even his mind had quieted. All he wanted was to enjoy his last moments, and if they happened to involve Martin holding him the way he was, then he would be happy.

 _Martin makes me happy_.

If he’d had water in his mouth, he would’ve just spewed it across the room. Instead, all he managed was to exhale far too quickly and make himself cough. Martin let go. Somewhere deep in Jon’s mind, he desperately still wanted to survive, if only to be held like that again. It’d been...far too long since someone had cared enough to touch him in that way.

He shifted his legs beneath him, fully intending to stand up. Instead, his calf screamed in pain, and the sound whistled out of his mouth in a suppressed hiss.

_Right. The worms._

“J-Jon, what are you doing?” Martin asked, his voice pitching higher with worry. He placed a hand on Jon’s chest to hold him down, and Jon’s pulse spiked.

“If there’s a way out of here,” Jon choked, “then I want to find it. I don’t know about you, but I really don’t want to die down here.”

Martin released him. “Well I don’t, either, but you’re hurt, and the only way out is through that door.”

“Maybe there’s a wall we can break down.”

“Jon, that’s absurd.”

“Do you have a better idea?”

Martin sighed and stood up. “Not really. Can’t hurt to look, I guess. Just, hold on a sec, all right?” He walked over to a small suitcase and opened it up, pulling out a few shirts before he settled on something he wanted. Jon was confused; Martin was already wearing a shirt. Why did he need another?

“Hold still,” Martin ordered. He knelt down at Jon’s side and proceeded to rip the shirt into strips. Jon very distinctly did not stare at the way Martin’s muscles rippled under what he’d always assumed was flab. Did Martin work out? When did he have the time?

The thoughts were chased away by Martin’s hands on his leg. The warmth soaked through Jon’s trousers, and he sat very still. Martin’s fingers danced over his calf, wrapping the wound tightly with the strips of his own torn shirt. Jon caught himself smiling, and quickly forced it to leave. He would have none of this, not today. Not right now.

_But maybe later?_

He needed to stop thinking. He needed to _act_. Act on getting out, that is--not on whatever it was that he was...feeling.

Martin retreated, sheepishly looking to Jon for approval. Jon again suppressed a smile. He tested out his leg. It hurt, certainly, but it didn’t sting as badly anymore. Plus, he wasn’t bleeding everywhere now, which was always a good thing. “Thank you, Martin,” he hummed.

Martin’s face turned red and he looked away. “Y-you’re um...you’re welcome.”

Jon again tried to struggle to his feet, having much more success this time. The pain didn’t go away, but neither did Martin’s warmth. His hands were holding Jon up again. It was nice.

He stumbled next to the wall that he knew was _supposed_ to be the exterior wall and pressed his ear to it. _No sounds of worms_ , he noted, which made sense because they were underground and it was an exterior wall. And yet something still forced him to knock on it. He could hear it echo off walls that should not exist.

Martin must’ve noticed his puzzled expression, because he let go of Jon and repeated his actions. “Isn’t this an exterior wall?” he asked.

“Yes,” Jon mused. “Yes, it is.”

“But there’s something behind there.”

Jon glanced at the window. “They must’ve come out of _somewhere_.”

“You think...you think there’s a place behind there, and they’ve been...in there the whole time?”

“It’s possible.”

Martin staggered away from the wall. “I’ve been living in here for _months_ ,” he whimpered. “And they’ve been there this whole time...?”

Jon stepped toward him, arm outstretched. He grunted in pain, but managed to stay upright. “None of us knew _where_ they were, Martin. And they never got to you.”

“What if they did and I just don’t know it!?”

Jon groaned. “Try to think rationally, Martin.”

Martin pulled his arms inward on himself and stared at the floor. He looked so much smaller like that. And scared. He didn’t speak.

Jon needed to fix this. He sighed and pressed a hand to his temple. “Look, I-I’m sorry. I didn’t know. None of us did. I’m sorry that any of this happened.”

Martin managed to pull his gaze from the floor, and Jon had to look away. The look Martin gave him was bringing a warmth to his face that he did not approve of.

“W-we need to break this wall down,” he said curtly, hoisting a fire extinguisher--the only one they had. “Do you think you’re up for that?”

Martin didn’t move for a second. Then he clenched his fists tightly and nodded. “Y-yeah.”

“Good.”

Jon stared at the wall, glanced at Martin for a moment, then back to the wall. “Are you ready for this?”

Martin nodded again. “Let’s do it.”

Jon smashed the extinguisher into the wall, shouting his every ounce of strength into the blow. He almost fell backwards on the recoil, but he managed to hold steady. Martin punched the wall with all the skill of a failing boxer, but at least he was trying. They both kept hitting the wall, and Jon could feel it cracking under the repeated blows.

Finally, one last push, and a hole broke through. A dark tunnel stared at them on the other side. Jon glanced at Martin. He was breathing heavily. His knuckles were cracked and bleeding. He grinned like the dumb idiot he was. “We did it!” he cried.

Jon smiled, only for that smile to immediately drop when he saw the state of Martin’s hands. “Were you trying to break something?” he muttered, searching around for the remaining strips of Martin’s old shirt.

Martin winced. “Yeah. The wall.”

Jon grimaced and picked up the strips. “Right. Just um...just hold still for a moment.”

Martin cautiously held out his hands and let Jon wrap them. The blood soaked through almost immediately, but it would at least (he hoped) hold any potential breaks in place until they could get out and find a hospital.

When he backed away, Martin’s cheeks, his ears, and the upper portion of his neck were bright pink. He’d felt the warmth of Martin’s hands, but what would the warmth on his face feel like? Maybe pressed against Jon’s own…?

He shoved the thought away and buried it under his mounting problems. “Let’s hope there’s a way out of here through there,” he said, tearing portions of the wall down. It was significantly easier, now that they’d made the initial hole.

Martin shrieked. A single worm purposefully wriggled toward him. Jon didn’t let it get anywhere close. He stared at the hole they’d made. The worms _had_ come from somewhere, but that seemed to be the only one in the vicinity on this side of the door. The ones outside twisted angrily.

 _Their prey is escaping_ , Jon thought. “Let’s go,” he said.

“Yeah,” Martin replied, glancing nervously at the window.

Without thinking, Jon grabbed Martin’s hand and they both walked into the darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

They were both silent on their trek through the maze. Occasionally a worm would jump out at them, far faster than expected. Every now and again they would both notice random pieces of rubbish lying on the floors. Was there someone living down here? Maybe some _thing_?

The tape recorder in Jon’s hand hummed reassuringly. He genuinely didn’t even remember grabbing it, but he was glad he had. If they died down there, at least it wouldn’t be a mystery as to how. He did wish that Martin’s torch had a stronger bulb, though.

“How long do you think this place has been here?” Martin finally asked after a rather long time of aimless wandering.

Jon ran his hand along the rough stone, brow furrowed. It’d been metal just a moment ago, hadn’t it? “The Institute was probably built just on top of it,” he said.

“Yeah, but...how long?”

“Well, the Institute was built back in the 1800s, so at least 200 years, if I had to guess.”

Martin drew in a shaky breath. “R-right.”

“Does that worry you?”

“A bit, yeah?” Martin squeezed Jon’s hand; they still hadn’t let go of each other. “I mean, if this place has been down here this long, then how likely is there to be another exit somewhere nearby? And what if part of the tunnels collapsed decades ago, or something? A-are we even _safe_ down here?”

Jon lightly squeezed Martin’s hand back, barely even registering that he’d done it. “Of course we’re not, Martin. We are literally fleeing from hundreds of worm creatures and their hive queen who wants to kill us for some reason.”

“Well when you put it _that_ way,” Martin chuckled.

If Jon had the energy, he would’ve smiled. Martin’s nervous laughter was a very welcome thing, but honestly he was about ready to pass out in the middle of these cold, dry tunnels and never wake up. He had to pick his feet up higher than normal just so he wouldn’t trip. He thanked every god he could think of that Martin couldn’t actually see him unless he shone the torch on him. He probably looked like hell.

They kept walking. There was nothing else to do. After only a few minutes, Jon had completely lost his sense of direction. For all he knew, they could be walking upside down on the ceiling at this point. Of course, that was absolutely ridiculous, but what about their situation _wasn’t_?

“Do you have the time?”

Jon tripped, and nearly fell if it weren’t for Martin’s hand still firmly grasped in his own.

“-od sorry! Didn’t mean to spook you!”

Jon groaned and tried not to squint too much in the torchlight. “I’m fine,” he muttered, pulling his phone out. “It’s half three.”

“Oh.”

“We’ve...been down here a while.”

“D-do you think anyone will come for us?” Martin whispered.

Jon glanced down the long, dark tunnel they’d been wandering for the past hour or so. “Even if they did, I don’t know if they’ll find us very easily…”

Martin’s hand squeezed his own. The man was shaking again.

“But um...but maybe…?” he tried. He couldn’t let his only companion down here lose hope just yet, even though he’d very well lost it himself. “Maybe our luck will finally turn around?”

“Yeah.”

They stood there for a long while, hand in hand, staring down either side of the tunnels. There wasn’t much else they could do. Something far away rumbled, like the walls themselves were shifting. Jon shuddered and huddled just a bit closer to Martin. Martin’s free arm immediately wrapped around him and pulled him even closer. Jon did not protest.

Martin dipped down and rested his chin on top of Jon’s head. Then he shuffled again, and Jon could feel Martin’s cheek settle in his hair. His movements were slow and hesitant, as if he weren’t quite sure what he could get away with. Jon didn’t move. It was nice to be held. It was nice to be cared about.

And Martin had always been very nice to him.

He pressed himself closer to Martin, not thinking about the consequences. He could feel the other man’s heartbeat now. It was rapid, panicked. Martin was tense, far more than Jon thought he should’ve been. Then again, they’d been scared for their lives for the better part of two hours, so he supposed it made sense. That ever-present warmth that seemed to come with every single one of Martin’s touches grew even warmer.

 _Does he fancy me?_ Jon thought. He tried to push it away, but it persisted. _Does he actually fancy me?_ Surely not. Jon wasn’t exactly the nicest person--Martin had clearly won that award for himself. But still, the way Martin held him, and the way his breath hitched like he couldn’t quite believe what was happening, and the way his heartbeat pounded so strongly…

_I wonder…_

It didn’t matter, though. They were probably going to die down here, anyway. There was nothing to be done about any unmentioned potential feelings.

He still felt oddly disappointed by it, though. No one had really cared for him since Georgie--not as anything more than a distant acquaintance, at least.

He knew that it was his own fault. His grandmother had always made it very clear how bad he was at acting like a normal human being, especially around other people. He'd never really had any close friends; he'd always been far too awkward for anyone in primary school, and too prickly and abrasive during secondary school. Georgie had always been the one exception in his life, and even _he_ still couldn't figure out why she'd so fearlessly asked him to go on a date with her in the first place. It wasn't like he was anyone special, after all. He was just Jonathan Sims, a complete failure in life who was now desperately clinging to the one person who still might have _any_ interest in him, trapped in a maze of tunnels under their workplace, and being chased by a bug lady.

A scuttle to his right yanked him back to the present. Martin tensed around him, inadvertently pulling Jon closer. "W-we should keep moving," Martin whispered. His breath tickled the top of Jon's head.

Jon nodded slowly and unwrapped himself from Martin's grasp. He didn't let go of his hand.

Martin smiled nervously at him, then glanced behind them. His grip tightened. Jon followed his gaze. The floor behind them was... _coated_ in worms. So were the walls, even the _ceiling_. The stench of rotted flesh and decay wreathed around them, and it took all of his willpower not to collapse onto the floor and start retching.

"Jon…"

"I see them." He took a step back.

"We need to-"

"Yes. Yes, _run_!"

They turned tail and sprinted away, pursued by their impending death.

Martin was faster. Admittedly, he was also much taller than Jon, almost by an entire foot. Jon was also heavily sleep-deprived and running purely on adrenaline that was only barely doing its job. So essentially, Martin was just dragging him along by his wrist. Jon did not care. Jon just needed to _run_.

They breathlessly rounded a corner and found themselves stumbling into a small room that was, in fact, a dead end. There was also a dead body.

Jon froze. Martin tried to turn him back around, but Jon refused to budge.

"Martin, that's-"

"We need to go!"

His voice hiked up several octaves. "But that's Gertrude Robinson!"

Martin shone the torch on the mummified corpse before them. "Oh God," he muttered.

There were tapes. Dozens of tapes. And her body sat among them, discarded as if it were nothing more than an abandoned toy. There were three bullet holes in her chest.

Jon took a step toward the horror. "Has she been down here this whole time?" he asked to no one in particular.

Martin covered his mouth with his hand. "She was murdered, Jon," he whispered. "Oh God, she was murdered."

Jon picked up one of the tapes. "And all the evidence is down here."

"Don't touch anything!" Martin cried, slapping the tape from Jon's hand. "This is a crime scene!"

He couldn't resist it. It was as if the desire to know was calling to him, caressing his mind with whispers of terror and grandeur. "But if she was murdered, and I took her place, then what's protecting me from meeting the same fate?"

Martin yanked him out of the room, and Jon fell back into his waiting arms. "Sorry, but we really need to go. W-we can freak out about this later."

This was too much. Gertrude Robinson murdered? Being chased by bloodthirsty worms? Martin gripping him by his arms and trying to get him to turn around? No sleep in the past 40 or so hours? He couldn’t take it anymore. There was no way for his mind to handle it, and he so desperately wanted to know _everything_. To _explain_ it all. The hair on the back of his neck prickled, the way it always did when he was recording a statement. The way it did when he felt like he was being _watched_.

He didn’t want to die here. He didn’t want to be a mystery, or a cold case, or anything of the sort. He wanted to be at home, where there were no worms, and no creepy feelings, and no haunted thoughts.

How he missed the days when a book about a spider was the worst thing that ever happened to him.

* * *

Jon went limp in Martin’s arms. _Oh God what do I do what do I do??_ Here he was, trapped in some sort of hell maze, pursued by those God-awful _worms_ , and holding his now-unconscious boss to his chest. His boss whom he just so happened to have a not-so-subtle crush on. Whose hand he still hadn’t let go of. For at least an hour.

Those creepy-crawly sounds, like a thousand eggs in a skillet at once (or maybe someone stirring endless bowls of spaghetti), echoed through the tunnels. They were getting closer. Martin’s heart pounded. It was just like every single one of his nightmares from the past four months, but _worse_. And Jon was there. With him. Weak, and fragile, and _vulnerable_.

_What do I do what do I do what do I do!?_

He couldn’t leave Jon. That much he knew with absolute certainty. He would have to carry him until he woke up. Fortunately, Jon was literally as light as a feather. It was like trying to pick up his Nan’s dog back when he was a child. That dog had only stood about a foot tall. Jon was much taller than that, and rather cat-like. These were very dumb thoughts of him to have.

He scooped the man into his arms. Jon’s head lolled off to the side, over Martin’s shoulder. Any other time, Martin would have been in the midst of a panic attack and questioning whether or not Jon liked him back. Instead, he was running from killer worms.

And also having a panic attack.

He could barely breathe. Why didn’t he have his inhaler? And Jon, light as he was, weighed down on his chest. He gasped for air and did his best. It was all he had left.

He should’ve told Jon how he felt. There wasn’t really much of a chance for them anymore. Not that there ever was. Jon was a learned man, after all. He’d been to uni, had a degree. Martin had never even graduated. Not that he hadn’t wanted to. And he’d certainly wanted to go back to school! But he couldn’t. Not now, when everything could so easily be traced back to him, and could so easily get back to his superiors. Not now, when he was literally about to be eaten by bugs.

Jon shifted in his arms, picking his head up a bit. It hadn’t been very long, although Martin’s sense of time was _very_ off by this point. He thought it might’ve been about twenty minutes, though.

“Wha-?” Jon moaned, his glossy eyes looking through Martin. Seriously, when was the last time he had slept?

“You back now?” Martin asked. “Because there are only a couple of worse times for you to do that that I can think of.”

Jon blinked slowly. Once, twice, three times. Then he finally seemed to register where he was, and whom he was with. “Oh- Oh God, Martin, did I just-”

“You literally swooned.”

He normally wouldn’t have said something like that, but maybe if he riled Jon up, it’d keep the man awake. Plus, maybe he could coax that frankly adorable blush out of him again.

Yes, that very one that was on his face now. His dark skin burned with a reddish hue. It made Martin want to give him a little peck right on the nose. Not that he would ever do that. Jon would very much hate that, he was sure. Plus, the man was completely out of his league.

Also they were about to die. Couldn’t forget that bit.

“Can you walk?” Martin asked, slowing down a bit. He was quite out of breath, and really couldn’t keep doing this.

“I-I think so.”

He had to stop himself from being disappointed. Jon was perfectly capable of walking, so there was no need for him to keep harming himself by carrying him around. But dammit, he _really_ enjoyed carrying Jon around, even if they _were_ running for their lives.

That disgusting squishing sound came from behind them. And in front of them. Jon’s hand clasped around Martin’s, and although he was terrified, he was very much grateful for that touch. At least Jon had accepted the embrace he’d given him earlier, unlike the way his mother always responded. The poor man must have been truly exhausted.

“M-Martin, look!”

Martin followed Jon’s outstretched finger. Just to his right was a set of stairs leading up to some unknown place. There weren’t any worms that he could see.

They bolted toward the steps that spiralled up and up, seemingly forever. At the top was an old wooden trapdoor. Jon reached out to push it open.

“Jon, wait!”

The man stopped, stared at him with that vivid brown gaze that set his heart pounding. There was a fire in those eyes, full of knowledge and kindness and pain that no one else ever seemed to notice. Jon was certainly a harsh personality to be around, but that underlying care about people that Martin so viscerally connected was _incredibly_ attractive.

No time to think about that, though. They needed to escape if they could. Had to.

“W-what if there are worms up there?” Martin asked.

Jon scratched the back of his neck--yet another of his quirks that Martin couldn’t help but find adorable. “There are worms down here,” he whispered. “Ei-either way, I think we’d die.”

“But we should listen for them.”

“Y-yes. Good idea.”

Jon was too short to get close enough without the small wooden ladder leading up to the top. He could barely reach his arm all the way up to it. So Martin supposed he would have to be the one to...to press his ear to it. To listen for those _things_. He stood on his toes and strained his ears.

He shuddered at the sound. “They’re up there, Jon.”

Jon let out a shaky laugh. “Th-then I guess...I guess this is it, isn’t it?”

“Guess so…”

Jon squeezed his hand. Martin wished there was something-- _anything_ \--that he could do. “M-maybe I can draw them away,” he thought aloud. “It might give you a chance.”

“ _Absolutely not_.”

Martin glanced at Jon. Those fierce brown eyes had narrowed, and his nostrils flared. His bottom lip stuck out a bit in almost a _pout_. If they weren’t holding hands, he was sure Jon would have crossed his arms. Instead, all he could do was huff in irritation.

“You are not _sacrificing_ yourself to potentially save _me_ , Martin,” he said.

Martin gulped. “I-it could work!”

There were tears in Jon’s eyes. “You don’t get to just die and leave me!” he cried.

The grip on his hand was strong. Shaking, but strong. He was sure that his hand probably hurt after all the wall-punching he’d done, but he couldn’t exactly feel it anymore. Martin could feel tears slipping down his cheeks. He could hear the worms coming.

And yet all he could wonder was if Jon fancied him, too.

After that sweet embrace they’d shared, the way Jon kept looking at him like he was suddenly seeing him for the first time, the _hand holding_. Did...did Jon like him back?

"Just…," Jon choked, wiping his eyes with his free hand. “Just promise me. D-don’t sacrifice yourself for me. It’s not worth it. I- _I’m_ not-”

“Like hell you’re not.”

“But I’m _not_! I-I’ve been nothing but awful to you ever since we went down to the Archives, and I-I-!”

Martin pulled Jon into a tight hug and held him there. The man went limp in his arms, and Martin _seriously_ hoped he hadn’t just passed out again. “Jon, you _are_ worth it,” he whispered. “Just because you can’t see it doesn’t mean that _I_ can’t.”

Jon wrapped his small, thin arms around Martin and clung to him. He sobbed into Martin’s shirt, and Martin’s heart broke. Jon had always seemed so...unshakable. He knew that he wasn’t, but actually _seeing_ it...it hurt. He didn’t want to see Jon in pain. He didn’t want to see Jon scared. But all he could do was hold them as the worms drew closer. They seemed to be moving slower. Maybe they had difficulty going up the stairs. Or maybe they just knew their prey was cornered. Either way, they didn’t have much time left.

“I-I won’t leave you, Jon,” Martin said. “I promise.”

“Thank you,” Jon sobbed, his voice hushed and terrified.

Martin himself had already pretty well resigned himself to dying. Sure, he was afraid, but it wasn’t much different from that time while he was trapped in his flat. He hadn’t wanted to die then, either. Of course, he’d also been alone back then. Now Jon was with him, and they were _both_ going to die. And it was all Martin’s fault.

_Why did I come back? Why did I put him in danger? What sort of idiot gets a crush on his boss and then gets him killed?_

The worms were closer. He could see them now, in the flickering light of his torch. The stench wrapped around them. They were going to die, and it was all his fault.

Jon lifted his head and watched the wave of their death heaving its way toward them. His face had gone pale. _Like death_ , Martin thought. His face was wet. He shook in Martin’s arms. _Maybe if I cover him, he’ll survive._

But he’d made a promise. He couldn’t do that--not now.

The worms were less than a metre away. Time moved slowly. Maybe they would never strike, and Martin would be trapped in this nightmare for eternity, just seconds away from death. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Dying sounded...really painful. Especially from the worms. He’d seen the pictures. He’d read the statements. He really didn’t want to die, but what else could he do?

Jon tugged at the front of Martin’s shirt. When had he let go? Had he? Maybe he wanted Martin to cover him after all. To protect him. What Martin did _not_ expect was Jon’s lips to suddenly press to his own. He gasped, and time stopped completely.

For a moment, all he knew was Jon. He felt his hand on his face, shaking, but certain. He felt Jon’s other hand grip just below his shoulder blade. He felt the slight stubble on Jon’s chin, because the man had completely forgotten how to take care of himself. He felt the tears on Jon’s face against his own. And there was Jon’s lips on his own.

White hot pain blasted through him. He screamed. Jon screamed. They both dropped to the ground. They were surrounded. They were dying. There were worms eating through their flesh both inside and out, and they were _dying_.

But the touch of Jon’s kiss, however brief, lingered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> >:)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somehow I wound up writing about the worms in both of my fics at right about the same time. Not sure how this happened, but please enjoy.
> 
> TW: worms, body horror, everyone is in pain

Jon did not know where he was. Everything...hurt. As if his entire body were smouldering under a dying fire. He was lying on his back, facing up at the empty nothingness beyond. Had he died? Was this his mind’s last-ditch attempt to tell him what was happening?

He couldn’t breathe. There was...something- something pressing down on him. He tried to move, but could not. The air was thin. Stale. Was he underground?

Yes. Yes, the tunnels! He blinked wearily, trying to remember what had happened. They were in the tunnels under the Archives, and the worms had surrounded them, and…

He’d kissed Martin.

His muscles tensed. He would have to live with that, now. He hadn’t exactly expected to. But where…?

“M-Martin?” he moaned. He couldn’t really move. Everything hurt. He was lying in a pile of something that he was _certain_ he did not want to see. “Martin?” he called again.

Nothing happened. The weight seemed to press down on him more, but it was almost...comforting? Was Martin…? Jon managed to shift one of his arms and reach up. His hand pressed against warm skin pitted with holes, a curl of hair caked with blood. Martin was lying across him, cradling him in his arms.

Martin had been trying to protect him.

_Oh God. Don’t let him be dead. Please don’t let him be dead._

He tapped Martin lightly on the cheek in the hopes it would wake him. When that didn’t work, he shook his shoulder. His body screamed at him to stop, but he needed Martin to be okay. _He’s breathing, which means he’s alive,_ he told himself. But then, why did his breath sound so frail?

Finally, _finally_ , Martin made a sound. A little cough, followed by a loud gasp. His chest heaved, and Jon could feel his weight pressing into him. If it weren’t for their situation and that awful pain, like a thousand needles stabbing into him all over, he might not have really minded it all that much.

“M-Martin,” he whispered. He still couldn’t breathe.

“Jon?” Martin’s voice asked. He sounded weak, and his voice seemed more airy than normal. “Wh-where…?”

“Under,” Jon coughed. Surely it wasn’t because of Martin that he couldn’t breathe. They shouldn’t have even been alive! Was it...was it from the worms? Were the worms in his lungs, seizing up his ability to take in air? Were they tearing through his flesh, eating away at his insides and slowly killing him? Could they be turning him into their new hive?

The thought turned his stomach.

Martin shifted, and some of the pressure lifted from Jon. But he still couldn’t breathe. Why couldn’t he breathe? Why couldn’t he think?

 _Fire suppression system,_ his mind told him. Had Elias really made it a CO2 one? Surely he must have. Maybe it had gone off somehow--had killed Jane Prentiss.

“Jon?” Martin asked again. Jon felt hands grasp at his arms, although he couldn’t see a thing. Their torch must have gone out some time ago. How long had they been down here?

“I-I’m here,” Jon replied, trying to push himself up. Something squished under his hand.

“Are you all right?”

Jon laughed dryly. “No. H-hard to breathe.”

Martin made some sort of unhealthy wheezing sound. “Y-yeah.”

They sat there for a moment, gasping for air. But there was no oxygen coming to them. “We need to- to get out of here,” Jon said.

“Yeah.”

Martin’s hand had not let go of his arm, and now he grasped him tighter, helping him to stand on what was certainly no longer solid ground. _A sea of worms,_ he thought.

He heard the creak of Martin stepping onto what he was pretty sure was the ladder. The trapdoor, of course. He’d nearly forgotten. A metallic creak followed shortly. There was still no light, but Jon felt the brush of something falling and hitting his skin on the way down. He shivered and huddled a bit closer to Martin.

“C-come on,” Martin said, letting go of Jon’s arm and climbing up. Jon groped around for a moment, trying to find the ladder for himself. His hand wrapped around the thin wooden beam and he scrambled up as quickly as his body would let him. The effort left him gasping.

Martin’s arms immediately grabbed him when he reached the top and pulled him the rest of the way out. The floor was filthy with worms, he was fairly certain, but the air up here was a little bit better. He still couldn’t really breathe, but Martin’s arms wrapped around his waist was making the normal process of breathing very difficult anyway.

“J-Jon,” Martin choked, “I-I can’t breathe.” He sounded horrible, like he was trying to speak through water.

Water, or...or perhaps blood.

Jon steeled himself, then pressed his ear to the man’s chest, earning a small squeak of surprise followed by a fit of coughing. Something wasn’t right, he could hear it. Like one of Martin’s lungs wasn’t quite working.

 _Collapsed lung. Dead worms inside,_ his mind told him. It seemed to be doing that much more often than it used to. Surely he had no way of knowing that, right?

It didn’t matter. Martin was hurt. Martin was scared. Jon was hurt and scared as well, but if Martin could care about Jon enough to offer to sacrifice himself for him, then there was no way in hell that Jon wasn’t going to try and return that support.

“I’ve got you,” he said, forcing his shaking legs to hold him up so he could try and pull Martin to his feet. The effort left him dizzy. “Just t-try to breathe.”

Martin slumped against him, and Jon nearly collapsed under his weight. “Hurts,” he moaned. “A lot.”

"I know. But we can't stay here."

"Wh-where are we?"

"Can't see a thing." Jon pulled Martin close, forcing the man to drape one arm over his shoulders. The weight sent a spreading warmth over his spine, but the pain dampened its effect. He bit his lip and tried to move them toward what he thought might be a door. “I think we’re in the Archives, actually. My office, maybe?”

Martin didn’t say anything. His weak breath wrenched Jon’s heart in a way he didn’t think was possible. _As long as neither of us die, everything will be all right,_ he tried to tell himself. _We just need to get out of here._

The two of them shuffled along, kicking up the carcasses of _far_ too many worms. Now that he’d been in the darkness for a while, Jon could just barely make out the frame of the door. It looked like there were still some lights on in other parts of the Archives, at least.

The cool touch of the metal doorknob filled him with a small amount of relief. It was immediately dashed when he opened it and saw the state of the place. The light spilling out of the breakroom illuminated the absolute chaos caused by the worms. They were... _everywhere_. They covered absolutely everything. Sure, they were _dead_ , but they were _there_. What if one of them had survived? What if they sprang out of the pile and attacked? What if there were some inside him or Martin, still alive and eating them alive?

He glanced at Martin and almost jumped away. There weren’t any worms on him that he could see, but the wounds they’d left certainly didn’t look good. His face was pale where it wasn’t streaked with blood. There were small pockmark holes in his face, his neck, his arms. Everywhere there was exposed skin, there were holes. Jon had a feeling he didn’t look any better.

Martin’s eyes met his, and he had to look away. He wasn’t going to stare. He shouldn’t. He needed to be strong and get them both to safety.

“J-Jon, you look awful,” Martin wheezed.

“So do you,” Jon replied, shifting the way Martin’s arm laid. If only he wasn’t so infuriatingly _tall_ , this might have been a bit easier. “L-let’s just...get out of here.”

“Yeah.”

They stumbled across the ocean of dead worms and over to the stairs up to the Institute main. Could they even manage stairs at this point? He didn’t know. They had to try. He was so dizzy, and so tired, and everything hurt so much.

Martin coughed. Hacked, wheezed, gasped. Jon could hear the pain in every sound. He hated it. He didn’t like seeing anyone in pain, but something about it being _Martin_ made it almost worse. Especially when the man doubled over onto the floor, clutching his chest and desperately trying to _breathe_.

Jon knelt down beside him, unsure of how to proceed. So he settled on rubbing Martin’s back in what he hoped was a soothing way until Martin could get enough air.

The look of gratitude was all he needed.

They began to hoist themselves up the stairs, taking a few, then pausing to catch their breath. Jon was oddly reminded of the time he and Georgie had gone on holiday in the Alps. This was rather similar to climbing a mountain. Even the pain seemed to be dying down. Of course, when he looked at himself, he knew that it was only from adrenaline. Maybe a good amount of dullness from the lack of oxygen.

After several agonising minutes of struggling, they reached the top of the steps. Now all they had to do was reach the exit. Jon hoped to God it wasn’t locked.

“Almost there, Martin,” he gasped.

Martin nodded, but didn’t say anything.

It was dark in the Institute proper. There wasn’t much to see to begin with except for a few potted plants and old paintings in the little hall that lead to the front desk, but everything felt darker than usual. More sinister. Constricting.

Jon was just paranoid. That was all. That’s what he told himself, anyway.

There were less worms up here. They could actually take several steps now without feeling the squelch under their feet. That was a nice change.

What was not nice was Martin dropping to the floor again in another coughing fit.

“Come on, Martin,” he whispered as soothingly as he could manage. “It’s not far.”

“G-go,” Martin begged. “C-call for help.”

“I’m not leaving you in here.”

“Ca-han’t b-breathe.”

Jon placed his palm on Martin’s cheek and stared into his clouded eyes. He was in so much pain, and it would be easy for him to give up, Jon was sure. But he wasn’t going to let him. “You didn’t leave me,” Jon said. “I’m not leaving you.”

“P-please?”

“No.”

There were tears in Martin’s eyes. Jon knew they would hurt if they dripped into his wounds, so he gently brushed them away with his thumb. “We didn’t survive this long just for you to die in here,” Jon said.

Martin didn’t say anything, but he did lean into Jon’s touch just a bit, almost like he was afraid to. Jon tried to give him a reassuring smile, but on the inside he was panicking for a lot of reasons that weren’t exactly relevant. Yes, Martin was clearly going to die if he didn’t get help soon. Yes, Jon would _also_ die if he didn’t get out of this damned Institute. And yet, the feeling of Martin pressing his face into Jon’s hand sent him reeling.

_Good Lord, he has a crush on me, doesn’t he?_

Suddenly a lot of things made sense. Martin’s obsession with bringing him tea everyday. His constant stuttering. His awkward blushes when Jon complimented his work (albeit rarely). His desperate need to prove to Jon that the worms were a real threat…

_He did it because he likes me. He wants me to like him back._

If he hadn’t been high on CO2 and terror just then, he probably would’ve thought things through a bit more. But Jon was in pain, he was scared and light-headed, and he wanted to help Martin. So, very cautiously, he leaned closer to Martin’s face still streaming with tears, and pressed his lips gently to the other man’s cheek. Martin gasped, but didn’t pull away.

Martin’s skin was soft where it wasn’t split open from the worms. It was nice. _He_ was nice--the nicest person Jon had ever met. He needed him to understand that he needed him to _survive_. When he parted from Martin’s face, he could feel the thrill of adrenaline pumping into his veins, the rush of blood to his neck, his cheeks, his ears. He didn’t care. He needed Martin to understand, even if he didn’t understand it himself.

“Come on,” he whispered, dragging himself back to his feet. He tried to pull Martin up as well, and the man latched onto his arm. “Just a bit further. D-don’t give up on me now.”

“Okay.”

That was it. That was all he was going to get. _Okay_.

He was fine with that. It wasn’t like he expected Martin to kiss him back. Not like he wanted him to, or anything. Except for the part where he sort of did?

No, it wasn’t the time for that. That could wait until they’d made it out.

Jon led Martin down the hall, past all the portraits of former heads of the Institute that always seemed to stare him down every time he walked past them. Was it just his imagination, or were those eyes all the exact same ones?

Didn’t matter. Escape first. Creepy paintings later.

His phone had service again. It never seemed to work properly in the Archives, but he could make a call now. He didn’t hesitate to dial 999. He told them where he was. Told them that he was hurt--that _Martin_ was hurt. They said they’d be there soon. Jon hung up. Martin said nothing.

When they burst through the door, a blessed rush of oxygen flew into Jon’s lungs. It sent him to the ground in a vertigo-filled heap. Martin fell with him, his head landing very nearly in Jon’s lap. He was coughing again, gasping for any sort of breath. He couldn’t breathe, though. There were too many worms.

Martin could not breathe, and there was nothing Jon could do but hold him.

He looked like he wanted to say something, but he couldn’t. Jon only sat there, cradling his head in his lap, praying to any god that would listen to save him.

He sat there and held Martin until he stopped coughing. He didn’t stop holding him when he stopped breathing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is Jon a little ooc? Maybe, but I'm a little bit of a sucker for sweet moments and also _pain_.


End file.
